by Anya Seton
Hardwicke definitely, and with annoyance, said that this prisoner could not so profit, since he had already escaped and was in France when the Act was passed.
“It is therefore, Mr. Radcliffe,” said Hardwicke hurriedly forestalling more interruptions, “incumbent upon me to pronounce the original sentence of death for High Treason, which was passed on you May 18, 1716. ‘That you, Charles Radcliffe, return to the prison from which you came, from thence you must be drawn to the place of execution; when you come there you must be hanged by the neck, but not till you are dead, for you must be cut down alive, then your bowels must be taken out and burned before your face, and your body divided into four quarters, and these must be at the King’s disposal.’ And God have mercy on your soul.”
Charles did not move. It was his lawyers who were affected, and Ford got up to plead brokenly, “My lord, this is the harshest of the commoners’ sentences. My client has noble blood, can we not commute some part of -- ”
“The prisoner is not a peer,” Hardwicke snapped. “And by his treasonable actions he has twice put the Government to a great deal of expense and annoyance. The execution will take place this day fortnight on December eighth.” He turned to Williamson, who stood near the courtroom door. “Lieutenant of the Tower, take the prisoner from the bar!”
Since noon on that day, Jenny had been waiting for Alec to come with news. Every half hour she slipped out to the market square and looked for him. The singing birds twittered in their cages, housewives, stewards, and innkeepers haggled for vegetables as usual, but there was never a sign of Alec.
At five Mrs. Potts sought her out, and for the first time broke the rule she had made and which Jenny had never transgressed. Anyone who took in a morning paper as the Pottses did, would have known that the Radcliffe trial had taken place today; Mrs. Potts knew, and despite her stern endeavors, she discovered that she shared some of Jenny’s anxiety about the outcome. “M’lass,” she said to Jenny, “I knaw weel, why ye’ve been running to the square. Ye’ve heard naught?”
Jenny, flushing, shook her head.
“Ye may run out agyen,” said Mrs. Potts, “arter ye serve some new customers. Quality they are, and they want ye to sing ‘Cease Your Funning’ fur them.”
“I’ll do so, ma’am. Thank you,” said Jenny faintly.
She found the customers at the best table in the taproom -- three elegant beaux in satins, periwigs, and ruffles, all taking delicate pinches of snuff from a gold filigree snuffbox they were passing around.
“Ecod, ‘tis a comely wench,” said the smallest and oldest of the three, surveying Jenny as she dropped a curtsey. “I’ll wager she knows better sports than singing!” And he ran his hand down her neck onto the top of her breasts.
Jenny eluded him with practiced ease, and said coldly, “What will you drink, gentlemen?”
They ordered various complicated and remunerative drinks, a sherry-flip, porter cup, rum booze, which took Potts and his drawer some time to prepare. When Jenny started back bearing the tray, Bella Potts came along behind her to inquire from these lavish customers if all was to their liking. Both women paused instinctively at the door as they heard the small man cry with relish, “So that’s the end of the jape that Radcliffe tried to foist upon us!”
The other two leaned forward, questioning.
“You haven’t heard then?” said the small man. “Radcliffe was condemned again today. It’ll be a special fine hanging, what with the drawing and the quartering. You don’t get many of those now!”
“I’ve never seen one myself,” said the youngest man. “Have you, sir?”
The small elderly gentleman smiled. “To be sure. It gives you an exquisite thrill that one doesn’t get from bear-baiting or an ordinary hanging -- they choke the fellow just a little, then they slit his belly most carefully, it’s an art to keep them alive as long as possible, then they draw out yards and yards of those blue guts to burn, and they start lopping off a leg here, an arm there -- what the devil!” he cried jumping and turning around.
Jenny’s tray had clattered to the floor, which ran with different shades of liquor amid a welter of jugs and broken glass. Jenny herself was clinging to the doorpost, her face white as the plaster wall.
“Go to your room, lass,” said Mrs. Potts quietly. To the customers she said, “My apologies, kind sirs, the wench slipped. We’ll soon fetch ye a new round.” She stooped to pick up the broken glass; the drawer came running with a mop.
In a few minutes, Bella Potts mounted to Jenny’s room and found her lying on the cot in the darkness and panting as though she had been running miles. The landlady had brought a candle and she set it on the chest. “Sit up, my dear,” she said briskly. “Here’s some hartshorn to drink. ‘Twill calm ye better’n any o’ the stuff Potts sells.”
Jenny’s unwinking, dilated eyes remained fixed on the ceiling beams.
“Did you hear?” she panted. “Oh, my God, ma’am, did you hear!”
“I did,” said Mrs. Potts. “And if it is any comfort to ye, that’s precisely how m’first husband died. Come now, drink this!” She pulled Jenny up and forced her to drink.
Jenny choked down the fuming hartshorn and water, gasped, and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t stand it,” she whispered. “Can’t stand it . . .”
“Oh, aye, but ye can, lass. ‘Tis wondrous what a body can thole. Forbye, I’m a-thinking the time’s come for ye to help him.”
“How?” cried Jenny raising her head. “How can I?”
Mrs. Potts hesitated. Though she had said nothing to Jenny, nor even wished to think of it herself, she was as avid a reader of the news-sheet as her husband, and she had foreseen this tragic outcome. Moreover, she was shrewd and knowledgeable -- a successful innkeeper must be -- and she had kept her ears open.
“I divven’t mean to raise your hopes,” she said at last. “And there’s none at all to get your faither free, why should there be? He’s guilty o’ treason. But I divven’t think it reet for him to suffer quite so cruel. Ye might go to the Earl o’ Chesterfield. He’s in power now and from what I hear he might use influence for mercy.”
“Oh ma’am -- oh dear Mrs. Potts!” Jenny cried, transported by a wild hope. “Do you think Father can yet be saved, kept in the Tower until there’s another Act of Pardon, as maybe there will be?”
Mrs. Potts did not think so, yet she gave Jenny an encouraging maternal smile. “Ye can try,” she said.
TWENTY-ONE
The following morning, Mrs. Potts finally met Alec, who came to the kitchen door sadly inquiring for Jenny. Potts had gone off to Smithfield to buy meat for the inn, and his wife, having committed herself to Radcliffes once more, was not a woman for half measures. So she welcomed Alec, fetched Jenny, and took them both into the private parlor.
Alec had aged very much during the sleepless night. His eyes were sunken, his hands trembled. When he saw Jenny, he broke down and choked into his handkerchief. “I feared it --I told ye, madam, I feared this in Virginia -- yet I didna believe it -- an’ o’ late there seemed to be such hopes!”
“How is he tak’ing it?” asked Bella Potts in her matter-of-fact way.
“I don’t know! That blackguard Williamson, God blast him, he’s moved his lordship to the Byward tower, to an upper dungeon where he put Lord Balmerino, an’ they won’t let me in again. Holy Blessed Mother, that there should be no one nigh him, for him to face alone what’s coming -- the degradation and the agony -- Tyburn and the tortures. Sweet Christ, they’re treating him worse than the basest murderer what ever slunk outa the brothels o’ Dockside!”
“Aye,” said Mrs. Potts quietly. “Matters do seem bad. There may be a way t’ r-rectify them a bit.”
She picked up her knitting, and explained to Alec the plan she had conceived. He listened dully at first. He knew nothing of the great London lords any more; he had never heard of Chesterfield. The mighty noblemen who had tried to save James, Earl of Derwentwater, they were dead. Lady Betty, the Ear
l of Lichfield, and Queen Caroline, who had actually saved Charles thirty years ago -- they were dead too. Yet Alec had seen enough of the world to know that influence was the only hope left, and as he listened to Mrs. Potts, his grief-numbed wits began to clear, and he grasped the points which she was making.
The Earl of Chesterfield after a long career of diplomacy had recently returned from a brilliant administration in Ireland as Lord-Lieutenant. There he had made himself beloved, even by the Catholics, whom he treated with extraordinary leniency. During the Rebellion he had not even closed their churches, as had been done in the ‘15. Chesterfield was a man famous for his wit, his moderation and urbanity. He was a dedicated aristocrat, believer in the privileges and superiority of birth. And he had the reputation of a gallant. A lovely face would not cozzen him, though it might certainly facilitate a hearing. Chesterfield had been out of favor with the King, but was in high favor now. On October 28 he had been appointed Secretary of State for the Northern counties, while the Duke of Newcastle administered the Southern ones.
He was therefore, said Mrs. Potts, along with the Duke of Newcastle, the most powerful minister in the country at present.
“Why, then,” asked Alec slowly, “wouldn’t Miss Jenny try appealing to the Duke, which is what his lordship’s kept doing?”
“Because,” said Bella Potts briskly, “the Duke is a timid shillyshally fusspot. They call him ‘hubble-bubble’ behind his back -- an’ he niver did aught to help Mr. Radcliffe, did he?”
Alec shook his head. “Not to speak of. I see you’re right, ma’am, and I know a deal about the means needed to approach a great lordship. It’ll take money.”
“I have some,” said Jenny, who had been following all this intently. “I’ve not spent a penny of my wages. Though surely you don’t mean Lord Chesterfield could be bribed!”
“Not by any pound or so you’ve saved, lass!” said Mrs. Potts with a faint smile. “What’s the money for, Mr. Armstrong?”
“She must be dressed proper, like a ladyship,” said Alec. “She must be carried in a chair, wi’ me alongside as her steward. She must have several guineas for fees to the porter and footman, or she’ll never pass the front door.”
“Aye,” Mrs. Potts nodded in complete agreement. She had respected Alec on sight, aside from her own natural predisposition towards a fellow Northumbrian. “I’ve a guinea or two put by,” she added and forestalled gratitude by snapping, “No more palavering, we s’ould all get to wark.”
It was Thursday morning before Jenny started out for Lord Chesterfield’s mansion in Grosvenor Square, since it had been impossible to get ready sooner. First there were the clothes to be hired from a mantua-maker who specialized in secret aid to needy peeresses. The gown was of sapphire taffeta and had a Watteau panel in back, all embroidered with golden vines. The lemon satin petticoat was brocaded, the wide hoops were enormous, as was now fashionable in London. This elegant gown, when tried on in Jenny’s room, needed letting out. “I am getting fat,” said Jenny frowning, as she stood in her shift and Mrs. Potts deftly began to rip the bodice seams open.
“My dear lass,” said Mrs. Potts, biting off a thread. “Ye’ve plenty o’ woes, so I’ve not spoke, yet sur-rely ye know ye’re breeding?”
“Breeding?” Jenny repeated blankly, she put her hand to her slightly rounded belly. “Oh no, it’s impossible!”
“Have ye had your courses regular?”
“N-no. It’s the ‘change,’ I suppose. I’m old enough.”
“I tak’ leave to doubt that,” said Mrs. Potts tartly. “And if anyone knaws breeding signs, ‘tis Bella Potts. Ye’re not expecting me to think ye a virgin, I trust!”
Jenny flushed scarlet. “No,” she said. “I’m married, and was for twenty years.” She sat down abruptly on the bed.
“Weel -- ” said Mrs. Potts, considering, and believing Jenny as she would not one of the other maids, who were often caught in trouble, “if ye’ve a husband, when did ye last lie wi’ him?”
Jenny stared at her landlady. The painful color burned brighter in her cheeks. Years ago in another world she had been with Rob. What need to remember it now? What right had Mrs. Potts to force an intrusion, to be sitting there with her practical penetrating gaze.
“I hate him,” Jenny cried. “And he hates me. I want never to think of him again!”
“Wey aye, na doubt,” said Mrs. Potts calmly, squinting at her needleful of thread. “But when did ye last lie wi’ him?”
“I didn’t!” Jenny cried. “He forced me and hit me. And he let me go without even a farewell.”
“He roughed ye up a bit, when ye were leaving him fur your faither, I presume,” said Mrs. Potts shrewdly. “And when was that?”
“Late July.”
Mrs. Potts nodded. Four months was about what she had figured it to be. With all the rest she had to bear, it was a pity the lass couldn’t have her husband at this time, but obviously she couldn’t. And many another woman had gone through it alone. It happened every day. What didn’t happen every day was to have a father in the Tower, sentenced to the vilest death man could devise.
“Ye can stay here, Jenny,” said Mrs. Potts, taking another quick stitch on the loosened seam. “Ye can have your babby here. I don’t care what Potts says. I’ll handle him.”
Jenny murmured thanks from inbred politeness, yet she did not, would not, believe in the child.
The church bells rang eight o’clock in the morning when Jenny started off through the London streets towards Grosvenor Square in the sedan chair which Alec had hired. He had taken great pains to find a smart chair and two liveried chairmen. He had also, by the simple expedient of standing drinks in the ordinary nearest Lord Chesterfield’s house, struck up acquaintance with one of the Earl’s footmen. From this encounter he learned something of the Earl’s habits. At nine, after breakfast, his lordship was always alone writing letters, before he dressed to go to Whitehall, or St. James. After that no telling when he’d come home.
Alec was as gratified, as anyone in his state of apprehension could be, by the elegance of their turnout and of his lady. A lady she was today, and no mistaking it. He glanced through the chair window. She sat erect and dignified, her face in profile, her gloved hands hidden in a muff.
They had hired a crimson velvet mantle edged with black-flecked white rabbit, which only an expert might tell from ermine. The pearls too, earrings and necklace, no casual eye could distinguish from the real. And at six this morning Mrs. Potts had summoned a coiffeur to do up Jenny’s hair in all the puffs and rolls and curls fashion demanded. The elaborate result was then powdered, topped by a small ostrich plume and a flat blue bow. The coiffeur finished by applying touches of rouge to her cheeks and lips, darkened her eyebrows with burnt cork, then, carried away by his achievement, vowed that for beauty and elegance even the famous Duchess of Queensborough in her prime would have had to yield the palm.
Alec quite agreed, and it made him sick to think how brief a time this transformation could last, while his heart swelled with hatred against the pitiless fate which was forcing degradation on all Radcliffes.
The chairmen bearing Jenny went the quickest way to the West End, along Holborn, and then on to what was beginning to be called Oxford Street and was amazingly built up, since the old days when there were open fields everywhere. It was still, however, a famous road for highwaymen and pickpockets. Alec kept a sharp lookout.
There was little danger in daytime, yet you could hardly call “daylight” this murky dark November morning. There were wisps of fog to mingle with the pall of coal smoke, and it was hard to see a block ahead.
When they left Spitalfields and again on Oxford Street, Alec had the impression that they were being followed. He turned quickly each time, to catch a distant glimpse through the mist of a tall male figure walking behind them, keeping at an even pace. Alec fingered his pistol, and said a quick Hail Mary for protection. When he looked around again the figure had disappeared.
The
y hurried on, the chairmen loping along, crowding what pedestrians there were, against the wall, and shouting, “Way there! Give way to her ladyship!” They had agreed on this. For the last time, Jenny was to be a “ladyship.” Alec knew how much a title bettered chances of running the gantlet of servants who protected a great nobleman.
Jenny had been very nervous earlier, now she was calm. The fine clothes gave her assurance. She put away from her the gestures and slips of speech which sometimes conflicted with Lady Betty’s teachings and example. She thought poignantly of Lady Betty, who had once gone on an errand of this kind to the then Princess, Caroline. Wherever you are, dear foster mother, she thought, help me now!
The chairmen deposited their chair before the steps of the Earl’s mansion. Jenny waited until the bowing Alec had handed her out. She settled her hoops, and lifted her chin while Alec dealt with the porter, feeing him ten shillings and whispering that her ladyship had come on a most important errand. The porter shrugged and stepped aside, leaving Jenny free to mount the steps, where the second footman opened the door. She must now fend for herself. Alec had to remain by the chair.
“I wish to see my Lord Chesterfield,” Jenny said haughtily to the second footman. “I am Lady Jane Wilson, and have urgent business with him.”
“He don’t see nobody at this hour, m’lady,” said the footman, eying her with respectful admiration.
“I trust he will,” said Jenny smiling. She put her white gloved hand into her purse, then nonchalantly proffered a guinea. The footman pocketed it. “Please to step into the reception room, m’lady,” he said. “I’ll fetch Mr. Portman.”
Jenny’s appearance and her bribe had procured her direct access to the house steward instead of the next ranking footman.
The house steward presently appeared, bowing deeply, but said it was as much as his place was worth to disturb his lordship at this hour.